


Resilience

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21515596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Right now Akaashi thinks the only person who is paying attention to Bokuto is him, where he’s been standing at the back of the players waiting for the unlikely possibility of a substitution; and even without any of Bokuto’s attention to call him, he feels the responsibility of that tugging on a leash of guilt." First-year Akaashi makes an effort at cheering up his senpai and finds more success than he expected.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 10
Kudos: 161
Collections: One-Shot Goldmine





	Resilience

Akaashi has been watching Bokuto.

It’s hard not to. Bokuto draws every eye when he’s in the vicinity, whether bursting through the doors of the locker room or seeming to take up every inch of the volleyball court when he stands on it. Even with his senpai to fill out the greater part of Fukurodani’s regular lineup, Akaashi thinks Bokuto is, objectively speaking, the most noticeable member of the team.

Not that his opinion is of any particular relevance right now, of course. Akaashi is a new member, relegated to the bench by the assumed superiority of the senpai who have led the team to victory for the last two years. With an absence of a standout setter among the second years Akaashi can see the position waiting for him next year, and in the meantime he has plenty of opportunity to watch and learn the quirks of the rest of the team he’ll surely be playing with.

Bokuto is the most obvious one. The rest of the team bends around him, curving like water rippling around the splash of a rock thrown into a pool; even the older players have adjusted to accommodate his undeniable skill and the tempestuous moods that come with it. Akaashi watches the ebb and flow of Bokuto’s temper, from the sparkling heights he finds when all is going smoothly to the dragging depths to which he topples when he finds himself too strongly opposed. When he’s at the top of his game he’s unmatched in energy and enthusiasm; but when he falls Akaashi can see the team warp around him, struggling to bounce back with the weight of Bokuto’s misery dragging them down. Sometimes his descent can be slowed, occasionally even saved; but sometimes there is nothing for it but to sub him out and refocus the remaining players around their third-year core.

This is one of those matches. Bokuto soared through the first set, winning point after point on a streak that seemed unbreakable; until it shattered with the set change, and left Fukurodani trailing by a handful of points. They are well on their way to recouping their losses even now, until Akaashi thinks they may win in two sets even after everything; but from the slump into which Bokuto has sunk himself, you would think they were trailing a match point by a full dozen. He’s cast himself onto the far end of the bench, tipped forward over his knees and with his head ducked so low that all Akaashi can see of him are the pale points of his spiked-up hair to make him the very picture of despondency.

He’s asking for comfort. It couldn’t be more clear what he expects, or at least what he wants, if he were shouting it with his usual effusive energy; but the team is occupied with the game, and the rest of the players are cheering for the players still on the court rather than fussing over the second-year who has fallen into one of his predictably unpredictable moods. Right now Akaashi thinks the only person who is paying attention to Bokuto is him, where he’s been standing at the back of the players waiting for the unlikely possibility of a substitution; and even without any of Bokuto’s attention to call him, he feels the responsibility of that tugging on a leash of guilt. He glances back at the game, gauging the strength of their regular setter’s tosses, the accuracy of his motions, the relative impossibility that Akaashi will be called upon to sub in; and then he heaves a silent sigh of resignation to himself, and steps away from the rest to join Bokuto where he has heaped himself into dejection at the end of the bench.

Bokuto doesn’t look up at Akaashi’s approach. From the forward angle of his head and the surrender of his shoulders Akaashi could be forgiven for thinking he isn’t seen at all; but he’s been watching Bokuto for more games than this one, and he sees the way Bokuto’s jersey shifts against his shoulders as he leans harder into his elbows and lets still more of the strength seep from his legs to drape him into more obvious misery with Akaashi’s approach. Akaashi suspects it would be the same for anyone, thinks that it’s more the function of Bokuto having an audience than anything Akaashi himself brings with his presence, but at least there’s no question that he’s been acknowledged as he steps around the front of the bench and draws in to sit at a polite distance from Bokuto’s hunched shoulders. Akaashi settles himself on the bench, spreading his hands to rest palm-down over the tops of his knees, before he draws himself up and takes a breath to speak. “How are you feeling, Bokuto-san?”

Bokuto makes a sound so low and miserable it takes a moment for Akaashi to realize it’s a groan and not a wail of pain. “ _Useless_ ,” he moans without lifting his head. “I’m  _ no good_, there’s no  _ point _ to me even being here.”

Akaashi blinks. “That’s not true,” he says, with as much sincerity as he can put into the flat statement of simple truth. “You scored nearly half the points in the first set.”

Bokuto  _ tsk_s and turns his head away. “That was just luck,” he says. “I’m all out of that now. It’s  _ over _ for me.”

Akaashi considers Bokuto’s turned head. He’s sure the other has been as depressed as this before -- it seems an inevitability, if the other is allowed to play for more than a set or two -- but he has no idea how to break through the overblown drama of the other’s misery. He has seen praise fall flat against the wall of Bokuto’s determined self-flagellation, has watched perfectly accurate statements be dismissed out of hand as undeserved compliments; he’s under no illusions about his personal ability to break through the armor of concerted depression that Bokuto has huddled himself under. The game seems a bad topic, fraught with opportunities for Bokuto to lament his own failings and for Akaashi to misstep into admiration that Bokuto has made it abundantly clear he wants none of; but Akaashi has never spoken to Bokuto outside of practice matches. He has no idea what other topic might be of interest to the other; in fact, judging from the enthusiasm that Bokuto brings to the court, he suspects there is nothing that will serve as well as volleyball to grip the other’s attention. That means he needs a subject related to volleyball but not to the game, a distraction to pull Bokuto away from the specifics of performance and to the more general appreciation he must have, and it’s then that Akaashi’s gaze wanders to a familiar point of curiosity, and the answer is provided for him.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says. Bokuto’s shoulders hunch in towards his ears, as if he’s ruffling feathers up to secure himself against the possibility of attention, but when Akaashi stays quiet he is rewarded with a tip of Bokuto’s head and a sideways flicker of gold eyes in his direction. There’s no suggestion of easing in Bokuto’s face, no indication that he intends anything other than to hold his bad mood the closer around him if Akaashi tries to break him free of it, but Akaashi just ducks his head towards the other’s knees instead. “I’ve been wondering about your leggings. I’ve never seen anyone else wearing them.”

Bokuto goes on gazing suspicion at Akaashi from behind the angle of his shoulder for a moment. Then his forehead creases, his eyes widen, and some fraction of the tension in his shoulders eases to lower the wall somewhat. “My what?”

“Your leggings.” When it’s clear that Bokuto’s confusion is failing to surrender to this obvious statement Akaashi lifts his hand to gesture towards the dark fabric wrapping Bokuto’s thighs, though he stops his motion just shy of actual contact. Bokuto looks down, his wide-eyed gaze following Akaashi’s action as if drawn there by the motion; and then he bursts into an exclamation so sudden that Akaashi nearly jumps before he realizes it’s a laugh at the other’s lips.

“ _Oh_ ,” Bokuto says. “They aren’t leggings. They’re kneepads.” He shifts forward on the bench by inches and reaches for the bottom edge of his shorts. “I unroll the tops so they come all the way up my legs instead of getting all bunched up.” He pulls the hem of his shorts all the way up his thigh, until the very top of the black wrapping his leg is bared. “See?”

Akaashi does see. He’s noticed this unusual detail of Bokuto’s uniform before; he hadn’t before seen the full length of the other’s thigh from this close up. Akaashi is hardly unfamiliar with the lean muscle that is a necessity for volleyball players, and he’s seen Bokuto play; it shouldn’t be a surprise that his legs are corded with proof of the explosive strength that launches him over the net for one of his destructive spikes. But there’s something about the line of bare skin at the top of his rolled-up kneepads, about getting that glimpse of exposed thigh under Bokuto’s shorts, that heats Akaashi’s cheeks and drags his gaze away with embarrassed self-consciousness that comes too late to stop the immediate rush of appreciation that fixes the image to vivid clarity in his mind.

“Oh,” Akaashi says, and ducks his head to look down at his hands in front of him again. “I see.”

Bokuto’s laugh is bright and booming from alongside him. It takes Akaashi a moment to realize the import of that. “Pretty cool, huh?” He leans in to bump his shoulder against Akaashi’s own; when Akaashi lets his glance slip sideways Bokuto is grinning at him, his head turned to give Akaashi the full focus of his golden gaze and all trace of his earlier unhappiness vanished like it was never there at all. “You thought it looked cool, right Akaashi?”

Bokuto is leaning in against Akaashi’s shoulder, coupling the lilt of his voice with insistent pressure against the other sitting next to him. Akaashi feels the corner of his mouth tighten on the threat of a smile before he can duck his head to disguise the surrender of it.

“Mm,” he hums, and nods without lifting his gaze to meet the beaming delight of Bokuto’s smile. “Yes, it’s very cool, Bokuto-san.”

Akaashi is sure he measures his words into deliberate deadpan, with the edges so intentionally flat they must sound entirely sarcastic. But if they do Bokuto doesn’t pay attention to the implication before crowing delight and throwing both arms up over his head in victory.

“I knew it!” he exults, and he’s turning back to Akaashi before he’s even lowered his arms, his whole face glowing with all the enthusiasm that had seemed so thoroughly drained from him mere moments before. “Hey, you haven’t gotten to play in the matches today, right? Want to give me some practice tosses when we’re back in the gym?”

Akaashi looks sideways at Bokuto again. “Tonight?” he asks. “After you’ve been playing in official games?”

“I’m not playing now,” Bokuto points out, with no trace of the depression this statement brought with it initially. “I want to try hitting that straight a few more times. Come on Akaashi, you’ll do it for me, right? Won’t you?”

Bokuto’s leaning in close against Akaashi’s shoulder, bumping into the other as if to carry his point home with physical force. Akaashi would like to be irritated by this casual demand on his personal space as well as his free time, but Bokuto’s voice is slurring his name into something warm and easy, and the focus of his brilliant eyes makes Akaashi feel like he’s standing in the force of a sunbeam. Akaashi glances up at Bokuto’s face, where his golden stare and his enormous smile show no sign of the bad mood in which he was caught a moment ago; and then he looks back down to his hands in his lap, and ducks his head into a nod. “Okay.”

Bokuto catches a breath of audible delight. “A _kaa_ shi!” he warbles, fluting Akaashi’s name in his throat like a song, and the next moment his arms are around Akaashi’s shoulders and tightening into a hug. Akaashi tenses, caught off-guard by this burst of exuberance, but Bokuto’s joy is unmistakable, and he can’t make himself pull away. He looks down to where Bokuto is pressing against his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut and smile glowing all over his face, and Akaashi finds he can’t help but smile too, even if there’s no one to see it but himself.


End file.
